


Earned It

by oneforyourfire



Series: The Adventures of Big Boy and His Tiny Love [2]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: "big boy" kink, M/M, Orgasm Denial, cockring, domestic AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 08:27:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5283755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneforyourfire/pseuds/oneforyourfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You were so bad. Can you be good for me?”</p>
<p>aka in which Kris loses his wedding ring and Jongdae rides him while calling him "bad"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Earned It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Torontok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torontok/gifts).



Yifan is trying really hard not to panic. Failing mostly, breathing too loud, too fast through his mouth, dread settling heavy and stifling on his skin as his heart hammers through his chest.

He’d just—he’d only just taken it off for a moment, while scrubbing the saucepan, wary of scratching the surface again, hearing Jongdae’s judgmental tuts about how really Yifan should be more careful with their dishes—again.

And it stings even more because he _was_ being careful. Was being actively _responsible_. Considerate. He’d only let it out of his sight a _moment_ —enough to finish the dishes, wipe the counter, fetch a glass of water for Tao, right their dishtowels on their little granny apple hooks. Five minutes, at _most_. Careful, mindful of his own forgetfulness, he’d even set it down in its usual place by their keybowl, next to the decorative bread box and Angry Birds cookie jar.

And yet still somehow he’d _lost_ it.

Yifan can hear Jongdae with the twins in the living room, laughing as Sehun chatters on during the commercial break about the bug he’d found on the playground. Big and really ugly but so cool, and Sehun hadn’t cried like Tao or the other kids when it had flown up by his face.

And Yifan has to be silent as he tears the kitchen apart, searching in that breadbox, in that cookie jar, in their toaster, their fruitbowl, by the towels, in the drawers—for his wedding ring.

Tonight, he’d cooked for them special, the meal already started, savory scent greeting a work-weary, kindergartener-laden Jongdae at the door. And he had been hoping to get lucky tonight as a result, prepared for heavy making out, maybe heavy touching—my wonderful, wonderful _husband_ , so considerate, my gorgeous big boy, so fucking _good_ —but now he’s in a panic (though he’s trying, failing not to be). 

And no, he can’t bring himself to tell Jongdae _why_ , can't take the guilt of it even though it’s just a stupid mistake. Hardly his worst.

So Yifan avoids Jongdae’s gaze as they ready their children for their showers—by yourselves and standing up just like appa and baba because you’re big, too, right?— then tuck them into bed. And Yifan showers by himself, pretends to be tired when Jongdae slides beside him beneath their cobalt blue sheets, a warm familiar presence.

The perpetual little spoon to Jongdae’s big spoon, he’s turned away from Jongdae’s ever perceptive eyes, careful to drag the fingers of his right hand over the skin of Jongdae’s wrist as the younger drifts slowly slowly off, a firm, warm, familiar, familiar pressure, an unwelcome reminder of his loss.

In the morning, the pale line, extra sensitive skin is an awful reminder, too, has him curling his fingers into a tight fist, pulling his thermal over his knuckles at the breakfast table, on his steering wheel, at the school gates as he greets Tao and Sehun’s teacher with a tight smile.

He needs to avoid confronting the issue, just for a little longer.

It’s a tense, tense day at work that day. Yifan, childishly, helplessly curt with his coworkers Chanyeol, Lu Han, the skittish new apprentice Jongin, as he tries—fails—not to panic.

The repetitive muscle memory work of sanding and varnishing wood, it does little to help him calm down. Hands occupied, lulled by the steady drone of his sander, his mind is free to wander, free to remember over and over again how he’d just—he’d just fucking lost his wedding ring _again_.

On his lunch break, legs folded beneath him on his workbench as he frowns at his egg salad sandwich—prepared _as always_ —with love, Yifan contemplates calling the jewelers, buying a brand new ring. Even though they share an account. Even though Jongdae, accountant that he is, insists on handling all of their finances.

Filled with an impotent, heavy sort of despair, Yifan scours his workshop just to be his safe, startling poor Jongin further as orders him to help him, why is he just _standing_ there.

He scours his children’s room, too, when he gets home, before ordering takeout. Indian, fingers twining tight and nervous around the cord of their ugly polkadot phone that Jongdae insists gives their house _character_.

This is his third time losing it.

The first time had been the third day of their honeymoon, both of them day drunk, on the white Jeju sands. Jongdae had looked so disgustingly beautiful, laughing at him then—”All this work and our marriage is _invalid_ , Yifan, you’ve just undermined the sanctity of our union”—with his hair blowing in the wind, loose cotton billowing as they’d stumbled through the sands, upset their own umbrella and beach towel in their ultimately fruitful search.

The second, it had been three months after they’d become fathers. One awful early, early morning or late, late night, Tao sobbing, Sehun following suit, and Yifan ringless. Jongdae had joked then, all sleep-rumpled and strained, a tired smile on his face as he’d bounced a fussy Tao on his hip, that it was becoming a _habit_ now, wasn’t it? Yian demonstrating his utter disregard for the sanctity of their marriage. Maybe, maybe this was a sign. And Yifan was too tired, too jittery, a flare of panic crawling up his spine, because he was too tired for jokes. Jongdae should be too tired to joke, too. And oh fuck, what if he was serious. What if this was his second strike, of the only three he was allowed.

It’s been five years since that incident, Yifan has been good, but _fuck_ should he have called the jewelers. He should have called the jewelers, right?

Yifan pauses in setting the table, glancing quickly at the digital readout on their stove. No, it really is too late.

But just to be safe, just to allay some of his anxiety, Yifan checks the kitchen once more, louder now, sloppier, still ultimately fruitless.

Defeated, dreading, he goes back to arranging the takeout. And it’s as he’s arranging Tao’s plate, opening their styrofoam containers that Jongdae comes home, the twins in tow. They’re flushed from the cold, red noses and dark eyes and hair peeking from beneath the hoods of their matching jackets, from the tops of their matching scarves.

They've been dressing themselves recently. Asserting their independence, they’re around the age when they want to start doing that, the blogs Yifan and Jongdae read had said. They’ve been wearing different clothes in different colors, insisting on using different toothpaste, watching different TV shows, asking for different toys, different books, different kid’s meals at the Denny’s on Grand Slam Sundays.

But even then, peeling off their jackets and unwinding their scarves to showcase their contrasting t-shirts and pants, they're adorned with twin smiles, releasing twin dreamy sighs and murmurs of contentment as they slide into their chairs, covered by the end of dinner with twin—or almost twin—crumbs and sauce stains, the brown sauce smeared on their cheeks, chins, fingertips.

They ask, afterwards, if they can watch TV.

Thursdays are Full House marathons, Tao announces, remember baba had read the TV listings for him. And Tao and Sehun, they both had good days at school and at daycare, too, they didn’t—

Pausing mid table-clearing, Jongdae gives him a stern look, and Tao withers slightly, voice tapering off into a soft, timid sigh.

He’s been mostly good, he amends. Right? I mean, appa has said it was okay if he learned his lesson. And he’s—he can even _earn_ it, he proposes lifting his Batman character cup.

He does. Clearing the table and offering to help appa separate clothes on Laundry Saturday, help baba and appa dry dishes, too. But only until 6:30, it’s gonna _start_ soon, please.

And Sehun stands there awkward and silent, willing to enjoy the fruits of his brother’s efforts, but not contribute in the least.

Yifan is so bemused watching the exchange that he doesn't notice Jongdae studying him, zeroing in on his ringless finger. And Yifan doesn’t have a chance to tug the sleeves of his sweater down before Jongdae’s hands are skating over Yifan’s knuckles, his thumbnail scraping over the pale line, extra sensitive skin of where his ring _should_ be. There’s a question in his eyes, and Yifan swallows, sliding away as he makes for Sehun’s Transformer’s silverware. 

“I went to get it cleaned,” he lies, and Jongdae’s lips purse in understanding, dark eyebrows pinching on his forehead.

And Yifan _hates_ lying, but he also hates the soft disappointment that stains Jongdae’s features any tim he’s been let down. And he’ll, he’ll be even _more_ disappointed this time. Probably vocally so. And fuck, Yifan hates the awful tilt of his eyebrows, the downward turn of his plush lips, the softness fading from his warm brown eyes. He hates letting Jongdae down. He already has, but maybe he can buy himself some more time. Maybe just a little bit more.

It’s Jongdae’s night to do the dishes, but Yifan is still feeling guilty—even more for _lying_ , so he does them instead as some sort of penance.

Jongdae slides behind him, wraps his arm around Yifan’s tense stomach to rest his head against Yifan’s spine. Smiling into his shoulderblades, he drops kisses through the thick fabric of Yifan’s sweater, his fingers meanwhile dragging over the taut tension of Yifan’s stomach. Yifan shudders as Jongdae strains upwards, stamps a series of warm, wet hums along the nape of Yifan’s neck. And Yifan’s fingers are so painfully clumsy as they set the dishes to dry.

The guilt only continues to spike, flare, overwhelm. Hot and all the more bitter as Jongdae turns him, presses him by the hips into the encounter. A brief bite to Yifan’s shoulder, another to his throat, hot, hard, and he’s trilling about needing to get the children ready for bed, disengaging with a lingering squeeze to Yifan’s wrist.

Yifan, more than vaguely ashamed, more than vaguely aroused, stumbles behind him.

They’ve been trying to encourage them to shower alone, they’re big right, so very big, but Sehun pouts at the foot of his bed, his Bumblebee hooded towel hanging off his elbow as he murmurs about how he really wants to play sea captain today and Tao wants to be water monster and can they _baba_ , if they promise to not be messy or loud and if they promise to not go in the water so long their fingers get all pruney.

Jongdae and Yifan relent, and they bear the scars of it afterwards in soppy pants and shirts, distended bath toys, waterstreaked tile, two giggling boys that in spite of earlier promises are just so very reluctant to leave the tub.

Jongdae, he’s surprisingly thankful for tonight’s takeout or else trying to thank him for last night’s attempt at cooking. Smiling at Yifan ruefully as he leans against the door jamb afterwards, he offers to tuck them in by himself. He tells Yifan to shower in the meantime, tugging him forward and kissing him once hard as a shivering Sehun and Tao whine about wanting to hear that one princess story. The one with the frog and the very mean princess that said sorry and married the prince and lived happily after with him.

Jongdae agrees with a laugh. And hand loose around Yifan’s wirst, he asks Yifan to wait for him, something lazy and hot and thrilling in the way he raises his eyebrow, bites his lip. And Yifan knows, without a doubt, that he’s getting lucky tonight, though he’s lost his wedding ring, rendered their 7 year marriage invalid, though he’s disrespected the sanctity of their union, though he's lied.

 

Jongdae reaches into their nightstand drawer, purposeful, smirking as Yifan collapses onto the mattress after his tense, tense shower.

Lube. 

And oh, of course, as if to rub it in.

Sitting at the foot of their bed, Yifan angsts and longs and imagines through the entirety of Jongdae’s shower, head twisted to the side and eyes squeezed shut as he deliberates through the particulars of continuing to lie to the love of his life.

Jongdae is, at least, efficient with his time, seems to know enough to cut Yifan’s agony short. And before long, he’s sneaking back into their room. And Yifan is sitting up, sliding forward, fists twisted into his pajama bottoms, heart heavy with guilt.

It’s not that big a deal, Yifan still reasons, _rationalizes_ , meeting Jongdae’s eyes. He’s just buying time. He’ll come clean soon enough.

And freshly showered, hair wet and skin soft with it, dressed in a pair of Yifan’s old basketball shorts, a novelty shirt from their third anniversary trip to Hawaii, Jongdae kneels in front of him, fingers dragging over striped cotton as he nuzzles into his thighs, into Yifan’s tense, tense fists. Gripping the wrist of Yifan’s ringless hand, Jongdae leans forward, inhales deeply, nose and lips grazing the knuckles.

Arousal laces with the guilt, heavy and heady and hot and confusing, slowburning, thick and almost stifling.

Yifan stutters out a moan.

“You still smell like work,” he starts, humming, pausing to lick along the knob of his wrist. “Wooddust, musk, strength.” A painfully succulent kiss to his palm. “Smell like _man_.” Plush lips catching on the callouses as his mouth drags hot and wet up towards Yifan’s fingers. “My husband.” A nip, wet, wet heat grazing the pads of his fingertips. “My big, big boy.”

And _oh_ , Jongdae is one of those moods, soft and pliant and arching into the fingers Yifan wraps around the nape of his neck. His tongue grazes Yifan’s nailbed, teeth scraping as he blinks up at Yifan through his eyelashes. Deferential and oh so desirable, oh so rare.

His breathes Yifan’s name with a long, long sigh, reverent and heavy with want. Moaning, arching into the touch that Yifan slides down his cheek, Jongdae swallows three of Yifan’s fingers into his mouth, slurping, suckling, savoring. And Yifan groans heavily, overcome with a sharp, sharp flare of want, as hot and heavy as Jongdae’s eyes on his, as hot and heavy as the tongue Jongdae is swirling along the lenght of his painfully sensitive fingers. Jongdae’s wet, warm, perfect perfect tongue paints over the pale line, sensitive skin of where Yifan’s ring _should_ be, had he not rendered their marriage invalid, had he not disrespected the sanctity of their union.

“Jongdae,” Yifan manages, his voice painfully strained, his thumb clumsy as it drags down Jongdae soft cheek. And Jongdae moans, muffled, needy as Yifan nail grazes the roof of his mouth. He hums, sucks, his throat working as he swallows greedily, suckles him further inside. Yifan is two knuckles deep now and so desperately turned on, hard and already so so eager, too.

And in one of those moods, Jongdae glides forward and then back, succulent drags and hot, wet kisses, movements slow and deliberate and oh so decadent, moaning and dragging and licking, for all the world, like he’s really sucking Yifan off. Getting off on it, too.

The fingers of Yifan’s free hand tangle in his hair, and Jongdae suckles him even deeper, briefly chokes. Yifan bites back a desperate groan, tugging, his hips jumping with the desire to be buried in that mouth, too, be buried in that mouth instead.

Jongdae’s hand settles on his hip bone, grounding and possessive, the pads of his fingertips tracing, meandering, claiming. Property of Kim Jongdae—I’m yours, baby yours—and Jongdae’s scraping beneath the fabric to the sensitive skin, looping scrawl. Yifan is struggling to stay upright, squeezing hard at Jongdae’s rolling shoulder to orient himself, shaking. Jongdae pops off with a laugh, an obscene slurp, his hand moving from its anchor on Yifan’s hip to his thigh. Arresting and steady still, even as he moans and sucks pliant and wanton and hot.

“Lean back,” he coaches, and Yifan shudders, heat shivering up his spine. “Close your eyes, big boy.”

And he's swallowing him again, more deliberate, dragging, devastatingly slow. Wet heat, skittering up up up and then back back back, and there’s something cool dragging over Yifan’s ringer finger on the retreat. And oh, _oh_.

His wedding band. He’s—he's been found out.

Jongdae pulls back slightly but continues to suck along his fingers, teeth scraping over his knuckles, sloppier now, all the more eager, moaning filthily. His hand grazes Yifan’s painful erection, and Yifan arches helplessly, eyes clenching tighter as Jongdae draws out a long, long moan.

“Look what I found,” Jongdae drawls, the words kissing over the hypersensitive tips of his shaking fingers.

And without being told, without being allowed, Yifan’s blinking his eyes open, head lolling to the side.There’s an awful, painfully promising twinkle in Jongdae’s eyes. Heat and want there, too, as his eyes drag up Yifan’s body in approval, lips parting with it.

And Yifan own lips part with a low moan, throat bobbing, body loosening as Jongdae makes a further mess of his wrinkled striped pajamas, dragging him closer, closer, closer. His touch is harder now, just exactly the right pressure, direct and dizzingyly perfect, small hand dragging up and down his cock. “Bad boy,” he intones against Yifan’s thigh, and Yifan’s cock jumps, from where it's pressed to Jongdae’s throat.

Gasping, grasping, Yifan is repentant, but still helplessly turned on, ready to see this through as far as Jongdae will let him. He lets head tip back against the mattress, legs falling open further, bare heels dragging over their down comforter with a poorly muffled whimper. Too whiny, too breathy to be Jongdae’s name.

“You've been bad,” Jongdae says, words hot and wet on the waistband of Yifan’s pajama pants. “Lost your wedding ring. Invalidated our marriage, disrespected the sanctity of our marriage, and _lied_ to me, Yifan. You’ve been very, very bad.”

Hips lips are pursing, his eyebrows pinching, eyes hardening with it. But there’s a certain thrill in it now, his disappointment, and Yifan is helplessly eager to please, earn his forgiveness, his favor, his—Yifan’s—own orgasm.

And oh, Yifan had read it entirely wrong. No, this is different type of mood, more commonplace, but no less hot or welcome.

It’s a mood of blooming red handprints, bites on places he can never quite see, strained limbs suspended above his head, Yifan gasping, sobbing into his mattress, into his own forearm, against Jongdae’s throat.

He's getting lucky still, but in a different way. Jongdae’s fingers knead into his tense, tense stomach before tugging insistently at his boxers, his pants but only to midthigh. The thrill of the unknown is electric and hot. Much like their first time—not as Jongdae had assumed from Yifan’s nervous laughs and fumbling fingers, Yifan’s first time ever, he was just nervous because Jongdae was so exactly what Yifan wanted. There’s a similar element of trepidation, a jittery need to do well, the searing heat of unexplored territory, the biting sharpness of Jongdae’s edges.

“Jongdae,” he manages, swallowing.

And Jongdae is tugging off his clothes, too, peeling off his shirt, basket ball shorts. He’s bare beneath and already half hard. Was getting off on sucking Yifan’s fingers, is getting off on this, too, and he’s promising even more as he crawls up, looming and dark and gorgeous and so achingly hot.

He cups Yifan’s neck, forcing his eyes up, his gaze steady. He drags his thumb lengthwise up and down Yifan’s bobbing throat.

“Bad,” he repeats, biting his lip in feigned—maybe, hopefully feigned—disapproval, pressing down briefly briefly harder on Yifan’s adam’s apple, and Yifan eyelashes flutter heavily at the added pressure, added pleasure. Brief, brief, brief, another promise, another jolt of lazy, lazy want. 

Yifan’s lips fall open in a soft, soft moan, a broken plea. “Please.”

“Make it up to me first,” Jongdae breathes, his hand loosening, thumb grazing upwards to brush over Yifan’s parted lips. His gaze is appraising, then approving. “Prove to me how badly you want this. Want a taste, right?”

And Yifan is sitting up hastily, sloppily to do just that. He urges Jongdae back into the mattress, hands clenching into Jongdae’s parted thighs, suckling at him slow and succulent like Jongdae likes, and Jongdae’s spine arches, fingers biting into his shoulders, then tangling in his hair, choking on a moan. He allows Yifan two dragging slides before he’s wresting back control. He lets the crown of his cock pop free of Yifan’s mouth, teasing, tortuous, but his eyelashes fluttery at the fleeting graze, gripping helplessly tight at Yifan’s still-wet hair as he guides his movements.

Enthusiastic, eager to please, drunk on the exquisitely delicious painful, painful grip Jongdae has on his hair, the distinct pulse of Jongdae’s hardening cock in his mouth, Yifan sets a smooth pace. And hands behind his back in a show of submission, Yifan gasps, hums, moans, sucks, bobs, his checks grazing Jongdae’s trembling thighs on every slick glides, provoking the most ringing, wonderfully pitchy sounds.

Sucking Jongdae’s cock is honestly probably tied with eating him out, as far as Yifan’s favorite sex acts are considered. Jongdae is at his loudest, most deliciously responsive like this. And try as he might, Jongdae can’t control this. Try as he might to school his expression, there’s a telling tension in his thighs, a hard, hard set to his jaw, a dizzying heat to his eyes, his every swallowed groan, helpless pant giving him away.

Jongdae’s responses are even hotter now that Yifan is working so actively towards _earning_ them.

And Yifan is earning them soon enough, entirely responsible for Jongdae’s trembling limbs, murmured praises. Finally good, too. Jongdae is rasping about it on every retreat, muscles dancing beneath his stomach as his breath hitches and his spine arches with the force of his pleasure.

And Yifan is ever greedy for more.

He wants to go lower, starts to go lower, already anticipating the dance of delicate—more delicate—flesh beneath his lips and tongue as he eases Jongdae open, licking past the quivering muscles, past the lube, to Jongdae’s heat, but Jongdae tugs his hair instead, pulling him up, then twisting them both around.

Yifan blinks, and Jongdae is stradling his waist, all exquisitely long lean lines, smooth sinous movements as he writhes on top of him, his bare ass dragging promisingly against Yifan’s achingly hard cock. His hands are hard on Yifan’s waist, nails skittering over the sharp lines of his name. 

“Wanna fuck me, big boy?” he drawls. “Think you’ve earned it?”

“Yes,” Yifan gasps, and Jongdae’s smile is briefly predatory, sharp and dangerous and hot. Yifan’s hands tighten into fists, and Jongdae looms over him, curling forward, his spine arching, his ass dragging more fully, more forceful.

“Like you like this,” he confesses into Yifan’s throat, teeth and lips as eyelashes dragging as Yifan’s fingers flutter over his thighs, his waist. Jongdae’s own fingers drag up his sides, linger in a lazy promise around his collarbone, his throat. “Stay like this.” And he’s sliding away, Yifan pinned by the command in his voice, his eyes.

They used to have it under the bed, their toy box, easy access, hurried gropes in the heat of the moment, unexpected—though not unwelcome—presses of silicone, silk, metal to overheated skin, but they’ve hidden it since then, the top shelf of their closet, away from their children’s curious hands and gazes. And Yifan is expecting something, not staying completely still instead tugging his clothes completely off, twisting to look as a very naked, very hard, very very gorgeous Jongdae strains on his tiptoes to reach. And the anticipation makes it almost hotter, has him hyperaware of the drag of 300 threadcount against his sensitized skin, the sweet ache between his legs. 

And _oh_ , a cockring, oft-neglected, relegated to the bottom corner of their decorative toy box, only for the special, rare, rare, rare occasions they can take their time. 

Yifan melts back into the mattress with a needy groan, and Jongdae is closing the space between them soon enough, sliding into his lap with a heartstuttering finesse. 

“You won’t lose this, right?” he murmurs against the taut tendons of Yifan’s neck. “Won’t dissapoint me, right?” as he drops a bite to Yifan’s shoulder, searing and possesive, dancing fingers sliding the cockring into place. “Be good for me,” he urges, low, lilting.   
And the lazy way he strokes Yifan afterwards has sensation roaring through his veins. It's awful, damningly dizzying how badly, how quickly, how painfully he wants Jongdae.

But doesn’t have to wait long, indulged immediately, Jongdae bracing himself on Yifan’s navel, sinking down with a slow drop, a breathless gasp. “Big boy,” he moans. “So good, my big boy.”

Yifan shudders violently in response, almost almost enough to knock Jongdae over, and Jongdae manages a breathy laugh, the muscles in his stomach bunching and relaxing as he rises once, falls, grinds down hard.

And because he’s earned it maybe, because this is the way to make Yifan beg and gasp and quake, Jongdae rides him exactly the way that Yifan likes, exactly the way he can hardly bear. Slow and deep and dragging, Jongdae rocking onto him with a sinuous grace that has Yifan’s limbs locking, his jaw slack with pleasure.

“Wanna,” he gasps at a particularly fluid roll, thrusting once weekly, and Jongdae shakes his head, moaning as he swivels his hips, his body gripping helplessly at the added stimulation. The friction is so hot, so wet, so tight like this, Jongdae’s muscles clenching around him, dragging so perfectly around his cock. And Yifan is as always overwhelmed as he tries to figure out which sensation he loves more, Jongdae around him or Jongdae inside him. And Yifan needs to touch more, gorge himself on this experience. 

“Be good for me,” Jongdae says, halting his movements when Yifan makes to grab at his waist, guide his pace, or otherwise ground himself through the sensations. Jongdae pins Yifan’s hands to the bed, rocking his hips, and Yifan chokes on a breath, chest hitching sharply. “You were so bad. Can you be good for me?”

Yifan stutters on a nod, hands fisting in the sheets, and they both lose themselves in the sensations. Jongdae gorgeously so, a series of trembling grinds, whining, needy moans falling from his lips all the while, frayed and oh so strained as he rises and falls. The pace is smooth, staggeringly perfect. Jongdae’s cock grazes his stomach on every particularly deep rock, and Yifan keeps fallling deeper and deeper into the delicious wet warmth, a series of shallow, interrupted thrusts as Jongdae’s body welcomes him in the most delicious way. 

The pleasure is molten, thick, arresting as it skitters through his veins. 

Jongdae isn't faring much better, his mouth open, his lips puffing with shuddery, low moans on every descent, his eyes heavy-lidded and oh so dark and liquid like this. 

And Yifan’s body is roaring, clamoring out for more. He wants to come. He’d come if he could. 

“Please, babe,” he finds himself whimpering, and Jongdae’s hands are almost punishing on his waist, blunt nails scraping over sensitive, goosebumped, trembling skin. Yifan arches into the sting, toes curling, fingers twisting into their sheets, heedlesss, helpless, helpless, helpless, body suspended in that sweet, sweet spot between pleasure and pain, tension and release, aching with it. “Jongdae,” he manages, so so frayed at the edges, “Please I need—“

_Please please please_ —

Jongdae’s neck is limp as it crashes against his own shoulder, his throat bobbing around a moan. “Be good,” he urges. “Wait for me. Be good for me. You can be good, right? My big boy?”

And Yifan focuses instead on Jongdae, thrusting up on Jongdae’s every grind, his slide slick and sloppy and messy with need, with delayed gratification, the delicious frustration and ovepowering heat of his need. 

But Jongdae is messy, too, bouncing clumsily now, swiveling needily, mindless, hot. His hands anchor on the tattoo at Yifan’s hip. “Mine,” he manages, a reverent, filthy, filthy declaration. “You’re mine, and you’re so good.”

And there are tears stinging in Yifan’s vision. He’s aching for reprieve, relief, release please. But no, no for Jongdae’s sake. He's waiting for Jongdae's call. For his permission. 

“Come please,” he groans helpless and desperate, a hitching sob for Jongdae’s every warm, wonderful clench. “Please please _please_ —“

And Jongdae tugs Yifan’s hand to his waist, Yifan squeezing once hard before groping down and palming Jongdae's cock, catching him as Jongdae pitches sharply at the added stimulation. 

It only takes two strokes before Jongdae is writhing wildly into his fist, face pinching with gorgeous pleasure. And it's always the most beautiful thing, Jongdae’s orgasm. His eyes clenching tight with it as his body spasms and writhes, a series of hiccuping moans falling from his painfully red lips. Yifan fucks him through it, holding him steady with hands anchored on his narrow hips, his own hips stuttering through a series of sharp, sharp thrusts that have Jongdae’s limbs rattling.

He’s limp as he collapses onto him, streaking across Yifan’s stomach and chest, panting against him. It’s Yifan’s hand that keep him upright, and it’s Yifan’s hold that Jongdae melts into.

Trembling still as he recovers, Jongdae is flushed and beautiful in the afterglow. Humming, he’s disheveled and breathless and radiant, his lips swollen and oh so soft, curled into a lazy, satisifed smile. Satiation looks good on him, softens him into something warm and beautiful and golden. 

And he’s gliding down as soon as he recovers, distinctly efficient. He slides Yifan’s cockring and condom off in one go, settling between his legs to take him deep, all the way down. 

Three bobs in, and Yifan gives into the pleasure roaring through his system, coming hard, fast, helplessly loud as Jongdae swallows him down, down, down, pressing his kitten smile to the base of Yifan’s flushed, pulsing cock. 

Jongdae is laughing even as he soothes Yifan through it, crawls up to curl beside him, nimble fingers dragging over his quaking limbs, guiding him back to Earth. 

“What—what happened to it?” Yifan manages, swallowing, curling closer. He reaches forward to touch him, too, petting slowly through Jongdae’s bangs, then over his scalp down to the nape of his neck. Jongdae’s eyelashes flutter briefly, neck lolling as he presses back into the touch.

“Tao took it,” he laughs “Remember that assistant teacher? Joonmyun—Mr. James?” Yifan hums, briefly distracted by the shifting shadows across Jongdae’s skin. “He proposed to him today.”

“I should have known,” Yifan groans around a laugh, and Jongdae laughs again, too, right against his collarbone, curling small and so solid before sliding more comfortably against his chest, kissing, laughing all the while. 

There’s a certain lulling softness to his movements, Yifan’s eyelids fluttering to halfmast with the lazy comfort and familiarity of it. He’s startled by the softness, the heat of Jongdae’s tongue, swirling around his nipple, his lips parting, his back arching. 

Jongdae smiles into his next lick, and it blooms into a lazy bite, Jongdae speaking against his skin.

“Mr. James was entirely apologetic, but Tao was apparently very serious. He even—even tried to argue his case. He said it was okay that they were both boys because his dads are too. And he said it was okay that he was smaller, because his appa is so much smaller than his baba. And he said that if Mr. James was willing to wait, then really they could be the _happiest_ husbands.”

Yifan laughs again, and Jongdae smiles against the red ink of his maple leaf tattoo.

“So we had to talk about taking things without permission and how he’s too little to be married quite yet,” Jongdae chuckles, deeper, more strained, as Yifan’s hand slides down, resting on the curve of his ass. And Yifan is momentarily distracted by the husky, rasped sound, the roll of muscles beneath his skin as his throat bobs with it. 

Jongdae urges Yifan onto his side then, twines his arms around his waist, and buries a smile into the nape of his neck. Post-coital Jongdae always demands cuddles, and Yifan is still very affected every single time, his skin blooming with goosebumps at every hummed _my big boy_ , every meandering scrape of Jongdae’s fingers against his skin.

“I’m sorry,” he starts to say, but Jongdae silences him with a thumb to his lip, pressing then dragging along the length, memorizing.

His eyebrows are furrowed, eyes soft. Not disappointment, but something just vaguely, vaguely thoughtful. “That was really hot,” he says after a long, long beat, “but don’t—don’t lie to me. Don’t feel like you have to lie to me, Yifan.”

Yifan presses his thumb into the indent between Jongdae’s eyebrows, rubbing the tension away, and Jongdae kisses his palm. Playful and loud.

“Well,” Yifan starts, and Jongdae shifts in his arms, his lips stamping against the red ink on Yifan’s chest, meandering up up up to rest on the column of his throat. “Our phone...”

And Jongdae slides up to muffle the next words with his mouth, humming into the kiss as his fingers slide down Yifan’s back.

“And those corduroy pants,” he manages, speaking around the tongue in his mouth, laughing as Jongdae’s hand tickles over his hip, across his navel.

And Jongdae’s fingernails scrape over the sensitive skin, muscle memory, a familiar circuit, his mark. His name.

“That bowtie—that bowtie that you always—“ He shudders violently, his words pinching off into a wet moan as Jongdae's wandering fingers wander where he wants them most.

**Author's Note:**

> and oneforyourfire, once more, takes the lead?


End file.
